


Where the heart is

by kindlystrawberry



Category: Rune Factory 4
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Confession, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Height Differences, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, I do my own takes on things so it's technically spoiler free, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlystrawberry/pseuds/kindlystrawberry
Summary: 5 times Frey made Dylas feel at home.Made for RF Weeks' 2020 Big Bang, in collaboration with the artist @purrmaid on twitter!
Relationships: Dylas/Frey (Rune Factory)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59
Collections: Rune Factory Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

When Frey had slipped into her bikini and snuck onto the shores of Selphia’s Dragon Lake in the early hours of the morning, she hadn’t expected company. Last night’s thunderstorm had kept her awake while cursing the weather, but this morning it had left her with a fully-watered field, meaning the farm-hand princess finally had the energy to spare for other activities. 

Most of Selphia’s residents weren’t early risers, though— or at least, as much as she was— so she was quite surprised to see someone already wearing their bathing suit and sitting on a fallen log by the water’s edge with a pole out before it was even 6:30. Her surprise was even more so since that someone was the town’s newest resident, who seemed hell-bent on not giving Frey the time of day.

Great.

Maybe she still had time to leave— 

Dylas shot her a look which quickly shifted from surprise to annoyance before letting out a huff and turning back to his fishing. Fine. Frey took a deep breath.

“Good morning,” she called. 

He said nothing. 

“Crummy weather we’re having, huh?” 

He made no acknowledgment of her presence other than a scoff and an irritated twitch of his tail. 

Wonderful.

Well, this was fine. After three weeks of the man ignoring her or offering only a bare minimum of communication, Frey had finally come to terms with the fact that maybe every resident of this town didn’t  _ have _ to like her. Surely in her past life, whether she could remember it or not, there were some people who didn’t, right? That was normal.

She wasn’t going to let it get to her.

The most recent typhoon had knocked around a good portion of the forest life surrounding the town, but currently only one tree had fallen in the lake area. It was the one Dylas was currently sitting on the far end of. It was long and thick with a deep brown color, and it looked slightly damp. The man didn’t seem to mind.

Gathering up her courage, Frey sat at the other end. From the corner of her eye, she could see Dylas’ tail freeze. She ignored this; he could have a taste of his own medicine. Once he decided to show the very bare minimum of politeness, she’d start acting friendly again. 

She baited her hook, cast her line, and watched the way her lure’s bobbing movements sent little ripples across the lake’s serene surface. Sometimes the ripples would crash against Dylas’ own. 

Frey glanced over at him. He was staring resolutely ahead. She realized at that moment that her lure had more contact with him than she did. 

Great.

Looking a little farther ahead, just past his lean frame she could see the bucket Dylas had brought already seemed to have a fish in it. Part of her wondered how long he had been out here, or if he was some kind of master fisher.

She was far from a professional herself, but when she first took up fishing after coming to Selphia, the princess had initially been surprised to find that it somehow felt natural. From the way her elbows bent and her shoulders set with ease, the markings of muscle memory that couldn’t be wiped away by a case of amnesia, Frey knew she must have done it a lot in her past life. 

_ Tug. _

Something pulled at her line. Frey quickly reeled it in and tugged back, a char dangling at the end of her hook. With a smile she unhooked it and plopped it into her own bucket. Barely two minutes later and it happened again, now a crucian carp. Another few minutes and it was a rainbow trout. Her pile was probably bigger than Dylas’ now. 

She swore she could feel his eyes on her, but when she turned he was staring at the lake, a determined set to his jaw. His cheeks looked slightly pink, but Frey couldn’t tell if that was just from the heat. 

The next few minutes saw her lure only idly bobbing when Dylas caught a large girella. Was he smirking? She couldn’t entirely tell behind the long curtain of his hair, but Frey swore she could feel a smug aura emanating from him.

The next bite saw both of them trying to reel in their own fish at once, but while Dylas’ managed to escape with his bait, Frey pulled in another char. She glanced over again and saw Dylas’ ears pointed flatly back in annoyance, causing her to have to try and stifle a giggle in her hand. He shot her a glare, but she just kept fishing.

He caught a shrimp, she caught a pike. He caught two back to back, a char and a yellowtail, and she caught a girella. 

She wasn’t sure how, but by the time the sun was high in the sky it seemed as if she and Dylas had entered into some kind of silent competition. Sometimes a fish would start nipping at his bait before deciding to ultimately get caught on hers, and she’d shoot him a million-watt grin. He’d huff and re-bait his hook with a bigger piece, but Frey swore on the Native Dragons that she could see a slightly impressed look in his eye. 

It almost looked like he was having… fun?

Was that possible? Could Dylas  _ have _ fun?

It went back and forth for a while, the two of them neck and neck until their buckets were almost filled to the brim. Luckily, as time went on, people filtered in and out of the lake area to enjoy the summer weather, and Vishnal brought her an extra few buckets when she had the chance to tell him she’d be here for a while. 

She silently put one as far as she could reach towards Dylas, and after a few minutes he picked it up and moved it over next to him.

Sometimes their accidental competition would draw a small crowd, the citizens placing bets on who would be the next to catch something, and cheering and booing as Dylas and Frey fought over drawing the attention of one fish with a particularly large shadow. Other times they’d fish in relative silence, and Frey was surprised to find that even with the man who had been so unfriendly to her, all of this somehow felt… peaceful. 

She’d occasionally glance over at Dylas and the lines of his back, the slack curve of his arms, and the firm grip of his hands— all more exposed when he was only in his bathing suit. He looked completely in his element. 

As day turned to late afternoon, Frey noticed that Dylas had been struggling to reel in a fish for a few minutes, and when the shadow finally moved up close enough to the surface she saw why: it looked  _ massive.  _

Dylas grunted under the pressure, but kept trying to pull the fish back. Frey only realized she had given up on her pole to watch him when his grip suddenly slipped, and her reflexes sent her diving forward. She clasped her hands around his, just managing to keep their grip on the pole. The fish immediately tugged at the line with monstrous strength, so Frey just tightened her hold. 

Her fingers looked so small against the slightly squarish, long lines of Dylas’ hands. 

She belatedly heard a strangled noise, and looked up to realize she was much closer to Dylas than she had realized. He was staring down at their joined hands with a violently red face.

_ Cute,  _ she couldn’t help but think.

“Do you have it?” Frey was still looking up at him when she realized his bare chest was inches from her face. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, and her own face turned pink.

“Y-yeah.” From here she could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed around the word.

“Okay.” She nodded, determined. “Catch that fish.”

She couldn’t help but give one more little squeeze before letting go, endeared by how Dylas’ face somehow turned even redder.

He was glancing down at his hands looking slightly lost before looking back up at Frey— and to her surprise, he furrowed his brows and flashed a determined grin, showing more emotion on his face than she had seen before. His ears and tail were standing on edge as he went back to actively trying to reel in the fish.

Frey (who was now sitting much closer beside him) spent an embarrassingly long second looking at the scar that stood across the strong line of his jaw before shaking herself out of her thoughts.

The fish started pulling so hard that Dylas had to stand up for leverage, and Frey— who at some point had started cheering him on— stood up too.

“Reel it in! Almost!” 

With one last giant tug he pulled the fish out of the water in a magnificent, giant arc through the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion.

A moment later Frey was drenched in water. She froze in place, soaking to the bone.

A few seconds passed.

Dylas was looking at her aghast, huge fish still dangling limply from his line.

Another few seconds passed.

And then Frey was laughing. She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly peels of laughter bubbled up and spilled out of her lips, loud and giggly and unstoppable. She tried to cover her mouth with her hands to no avail, and soon she was laughing so hard she had to clutch at her stomach. Her pigtails bounced with limp, wet slaps around her as her shoulders shook.

She heard a low, warm noise beside her and with slight shock turned to see Dylas shaking his head as he chuckled, unhooking the fish from his line. Finally, Frey managed to calm herself and wipe the tears that had pooled around her eyes. 

Dylas had started to pack up his things and she soon did the same. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten— the sun was already starting a lazy descent towards the horizon.

“What are you going to do with all of that fish?” Frey asked, unable to help herself. She half-expected him not to respond, to go back to his usual brusque self.

“Dunno,” was Dylas’ simple reply, but it wasn’t unkind. After a moment he added, “Uh… you?”

She blinked for a second before flashing a bright smile. 

“I just got the knife tool from Porco, so I’ll probably practice making sashimi or something.”

“Ah, really?”

Did Dylas’ features just light up? His ears perked and his tail stopped its absent swinging. For once he was staring at her with unbroken eye contact and an expression she didn’t know how to read on his typically stoic face. Was that excitement?

“Y-yeah. Do you like sashimi?”

He cleared his throat and looked back to his things, suddenly much more interested in packing. He moved a long, slender hand to scratch at the nape of his neck. 

“Er— a little.” 

“Then… Will you be my taste tester every once in a while? After I get some practice in, of course. I promise not to make you sick.”

To Frey’s own surprise, her fingers were picking at their nails in nervous anticipation. If she couldn’t get past Dylas’ cold, unfriendly shell today, then she wasn’t sure she ever would. He didn’t owe it to her to become her friend, of course, but something in her felt like she would be missing out on something. She wasn’t sure what, yet.

His amber eyes flicked towards her in slight surprise, before they warmed just a fraction. 

“Sure.” The slightly soft smile that had graced his lips flew away in an instant. “I-I mean— go ahead, if you’ve got leftovers or whatever.” He added a mumbled _ “Idiot,”  _ but she couldn’t tell who he was addressing. 

She started to giggle again, barely managing to hold back from another laughing fit.

“Wh-what?” Dylas demanded, cheeks warm.

The last of her things were packed. She picked them up to go. “Did you know today was the first time I saw you smile?”

He blinked.

“I’ll see you, Dylas.” 

She turned to walk towards the bridge leading back into town.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art in this chapter was made by the incredible Purrincess! Check out her stuff here:  
> http://twitter.com/purrmaid  
> https://purrlncess.tumblr.com/

Frey wasn’t feeling sorry for herself. Of course she wasn’t. She was simply sitting cross-legged in front of her storage chest with tons and tons of things semi-organized into piles on the floor around her, taking notes of what she had— because, well, it was good to be organized. And she had time. It wasn’t like she was doing anything else today. On Valentine’s day. Right.

_28 (S) wooly furballs._

A sudden knock on her bedroom door startled Frey out of her thoughts. She set aside her notepad and stood, brushing dust off her skirt. Strange. That wasn’t the door that anyone else from the castle usually came through. On top of that, she had done all of her customary greetings this morning with a polite amount of friendship-cookies, so she wasn’t expecting company.

“Hello?”

She opened the door and found a prince who looked frazzled— at least, for his own standards.

“Arthur?”

“Ah— Frey— Forgive me for the intrusion, but may I come in? I have something to ask you and I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

“O-of course, come in.”

Slightly dazed, Frey stepped aside, letting him into the room. After a few paces he stood awkwardly in place. She noticed how he was looking around, and caught the slight smile on his lips when he saw the Chipsqueek plush by her bed. 

Was he nervous?

This couldn’t be… It was her first Valentine’s (in Selphia, at least, but that counted as _ever_ ) so she had made sure to listen intently when Volkanon explained the tradition. It was already the day of Valentine’s— weren’t suitors supposed to have asked y _esterday_ if someone would go on a date with them? And Arthur was definitely the punctual sort.

Not that he was going to ask. She and Arthur didn’t have that kind of relationship. She didn’t have that kind of relationship with anyone, actually, not even with… Well, anyway, Frey was currently spending the afternoon alone in her room archiving each and every one of her worldly possessions, which was perfectly fine, thank you very much. 

At least Arthur was careful not to step on any of her piles.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this unannounced, Frey. I have a favor to ask of you. Or rather, we do.”

“What is it?”

“As you probably know, today is one of the busiest tourist days for Selphia, and particularly for the restaurant.” 

“Right.” That made sense. Couples going on dates, or confessing their love. It was probably how Frey would like to spend the holiday too, someday in the future.

“Regardless, this morning Porcoline woke up with a fever and didn’t think to tell anyone until he nearly collapsed about an hour ago.” 

“Oh! Is he okay?”

Arthur gave a curt nod. 

“Jones said he simply needed water and rest for a few days for it to pass. While we’re all thankful it isn’t serious, it does mean that he can’t be in the kitchen.”

Frey checked the clock on her wall. 17:45.

“Exactly,” Arthur said, his ever-observant gaze moving from hers to the clock. “The main bulk of guests will be coming in soon. Jones included, actually. Margaret, Dylas, and I have been trying to figure out ways to deal with this, but it seems none of us are adept enough at cooking. Dylas has been learning, but he can’t make _and_ serve the food during such a busy night.”

Frey was already gnawing at her lip, brows knitted. “How can I help?”

If she wasn’t already running through possibilities in her mind, she might have noticed the slight look of amusement on Arthur’s face, despite everything— probably at how easily she always came to care about other people’s problems.

A relieved smile passed over his face. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m very sorry to have to ask you to throw away your whole evening on such short notice, especially on a day like this,” Frey noted that the irony seemed lost to him, considering all of the piles currently on her floor, “but Dylas mentioned that you’ve been becoming quite skilled at cooking recently.”

“Me?! I mean, I have been practicing, but I’m no Porco. Won’t people be disappointed?”

“They’ll be less disappointed than not getting any food at all, I think. And— I know I’ve only had your pickled turnips once or twice, but if I may say so, they were quite good.”

Frey couldn’t help but smile.

“And don’t worry,” he continued. “Meg and I will be spending the night taking turns looking after Porcoline and ensuring customers are happy so that things run smoothly for you both. She’s been learning new love songs in preparation, and I was thinking of handing out discount vouchers for people’s next visit. At the moment Dylas is preparing the kitchen for when guests start arriving, and he promised to help cook whenever he isn’t waiting tables.”

“Okay.” Frey nodded slowly as she made up her mind and looked him in the eye. If she made herself seem more determined than she felt, then maybe she could trick herself into more confidence. “Okay! I’ll do it.”

“Great. Thank you, from all of us.” Arthur’s big smile was tired but genuine. He gave one more look around at her things. “Do you need time to clean up first?”

“Oh— no, it’s fine... I’ll just get back to it later.”

* * *

Frey… maybe hadn’t thought this all the way through. She was always happy to help the people of Selphia, and Porcoline, in particular, had shown so much kindness to everyone around him that he certainly deserved the help.

But, well, even if Frey’s cooking was getting better with all of her practice, that was in the easy, no-stakes environment of her own kitchen; here there were specific orders, timelines, and a rather grouchy man-horse. He had at least brusquely showed her around the kitchen once before promptly bumping into her and calling her a klutz. One time their hands had touched while she handed him a plate, and Dylas had dropped the entire thing, forcing her to remake it while Arthur apologized to the guest.

And that was only in the first forty-five minutes.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

Dylas felt awkward. The kitchen was a space that he had gotten so used to in Selphia— probably the _most_ used to, alongside the lake— that having it changed up so suddenly threw him off his game. And Dylas wasn’t great at improvising. When something unexpected happened, he tended to tense up and lash out; and Frey was the biggest unexpected of them all. 

Everything about her made him feel things that he couldn’t even put words to, which left him nervous and snappy. 

Even still, Frey put up with it throughout the first hour of the evening, wearing a brave face as she kept on pumping out dish after dish. After enough disapproving looks from Arthur and a scolding from Margaret, Dylas gave into his guilt and decided to at least try to act less… gruff.

Seeing that all customers were eating happily along to the sound of Meg’s harp playing, Dylas made his way towards the kitchen. At first he thought that Frey was paying attention to the music just like everyone else, but when he got closer he realized that her gaze was far too distant.

Her arms were set on either side of the counter, grip knuckle-white, and he realized belatedly her shoulders were trembling. Oh.

“Frey?” His voice came out at a whisper, partly not willing to disturb the music, partly scared that if he startled her she’d run right out the door.

She blinked, making no other indication she had heard him. When she spoke, her voice sounded distant, a slight quake to it, like a stampede of Elefun being held back by only a string. “I’ve… I’ve never made this. I don’t have any clue where to start. I don’t think I even have this recipe at home.” 

“What is it?”

“I shouldn’t have done this. I’m no Porcoline, how am I supposed to feed an entire restaurant on one of its busiest nights?”

“Hey…”

“I’m going to ruin everyone’s night. No! Their whole relationships! And the business! What if—”

_“Frey.”_

She glanced up at him, crystal green eyes meeting his for the first time that night since they’d started snapping at each other. 

“Which dish is it?” Dylas’ voice sounded foreign to his own ears; it was low, but almost gentle.

“Union stew,” she dropped back into a hushed tone. No one could hear them over the lilting melody of Meg’s music.

He glanced up at the tables, and saw all the customers were still occupied. Swallowing down his embarrassment, he managed to say, “You’re not doing a bad job so far. Let me show you.”

“You know how to make it? Isn’t it a difficult dish?”  
“I don’t always get it… _perfect,_ but Porco said I’ve been improving.” Through his slightly awkward shrug, Dylas could feel the soft smile just barely ghosting his lips, which somehow felt strange and right all at once. “C’mere.”

Frey scooched up beside him, her bare arm brushing against his and making his brain short circuit. But when he glanced down at her after a few moments of trying to will his flustered state away, her eyes were bright and curious, lively like they usually were.

_Good. That’s a good look on her._

They went through the steps together, and by the end of it she was practically glowing, finishing the recipe herself as he went to go deliver more wine and water to tables. 

After that, something that was jagged and anxious between them seemed to slip away, letting the two of them click into place. They moved around each other as fluidly as water, easily calling back to each other what they needed, and cooking together when Dylas wasn’t waiting tables. A couple times Frey went out onto the dining floor herself when Dylas was charged with making a recipe that he was particularly good at, and he couldn’t help getting distracted more than once by the radiant smiles she gave the customers. 

The rest of the evening went smoothly, and at some point—after ignoring a few jabs from Meg— Dylas realized he was actually…enjoying himself? He was lucky enough to genuinely like his job on a daily basis. Even wrestling dishes from Porcoline had some fun elements to it, mostly in how it triggered his competitive nature. But this was different, somehow. It felt nerve-wracking and exciting, yet also perfectly natural as he and Frey moved around each other, in-sync in the space of the kitchen. Even when he had to frustratedly catch himself from staring at her a few times (the occasional smiles she sent his way made the hair at the back of his neck prickle with unfamiliar electricity), there was also a comfort in her quiet presence, in the soft tune she hummed as she spiced and stirred dishes. 

Guests were eating their food and beaming, leaving hefty tips on the table for Dylas to count and split up later. Arthur and Meg looked much more at ease too, as the night rolled on.

At one point, near the end of the dinner service, Dylas was setting down cake at a table when he noticed Frey struggling to reach something in one of the high cabinets. 

(Dylas never understood why Porcoline had such tall cabinets, when the man himself was pretty short, but Porcoline would probably just say some wistful remark that it was fate waiting for Dylas to dump himself at his doorstep. Tch).

“Need help?” Dylas’ low voice rang out as he stood behind Frey, the line of her back just a breath from his as he leaned over. She seemed to jump for just a moment before standing rigidly in place. 

“What are you trying to get?” He asked.

“Th-the vanilla extract.”

He nodded, lifting his hand and reaching far over her as he grabbed the bottle.

It was only when he looked back down that he realized just how small the princess looked against him. From this angle he was only able to see the mint green locks at the crown of her head, the pale slope of her petite, lean shoulders, and the pink tips of her ears. Oh.

_Oh._ She was— close. Her body heat radiated off of her. His tail froze, stock still. 

“Er— uh, sorry. Here you go.” He placed the bottle on the counter next to her and took two large steps backward, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Thank you,” was her mumbled reply, before she went back to cooking. 

Before he went back to checking on tables Dylas gave some noncommittal noise, probably, which he couldn’t quite hear over the thundering of his heart. There was one thought, two words, bouncing around in his head like an echo.

_So cute._

* * *

Moonlight filtered in through the windows, kept at bay only by the low lights still flickering in the restaurant. The last customers were gone, dishes were washed, Margaret was checking on Porcoline, and Arthur was going over the earnings of the night. Things had somehow ended up with just Frey and Dylas sitting on the floor in the small alcove of the kitchen’s counters, leaning against the cabinets side by side. 

They were laughing, and at this point Frey couldn’t even remember why, but the tired, pleasant sounds echoed between the two of them, feeling somehow more special in the solitude of the restaurant. 

“I don’t think I want to see a kitchen again for at least a week,” Frey said between her last remaining giggles.

Dylas let out a low chuckle, which set something fluttery and awkward loose in Frey’s chest. 

“Yeah? So you’re not gonna eat?”

She was unable to help herself from rolling her eyes and nudging his arm with her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just live off of the general store’s rice.”

He laughed again, a quiet, warm noise. Leaning into her peripheral she could just make out Dylas’ face: his tired eyes, the slight smile tugging at his lips, the sharp plains of his cheek and jaw and that fascinating scar, all rendered somehow softer by the evening light. He was staring ahead, gaze not seeming to focus on anything in particular, and his defenses seemed lowered— not entirely, but more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

It was a good look on him. 

Something caught her eye.

“Oh!”

Dylas looked over with a single eyebrow raised as Frey scrambled to grab the last cold tray of chocolate cookies that were hanging over the edge of the opposite counter. She held it on her lap.

“I forgot about these. That one couple ended up canceling their order at the very last minute. What should I do?”

He let out an unconcerned hum. 

“Leave them. Porco will happily eat ‘em all tomorrow.”

She nodded half-absently. Her brain was still running. Last she heard from Meg, Porco was half-deliriously bemoaning the fact that he had missed his favorite holiday. Of course she’d let the chef have them, and hopefully they’d cheer him up. 

But there were almost a half dozen of her hand-made cookies left. It _was_ Valentine’s day, and they were technically just leftovers. That wasn’t weird, right?

In a sudden moment of impulsive bravery, Frey held out the tray to Dylas.

“D-do you want one?” 

He blinked owlishly at her, the long strands of his hair that fell over his face rendered near-silver in the low light. 

“I- Well,” she continued, “I know you said you don’t really like sweets, but, it _is_ my first Valentine’s day, so I thought I’d try and keep up the tradition.” She held back a wince. “Er—” her eyes shot up to the clock. 00:02. “Well, almost tradition, anyway. You don’t have to.”

He was still blinking down at the tray, expression completely blank. After a moment he glanced back up at her but could only seem to manage to look at her cheeks before he blushed and stuttered out a soft, “Y-yeah. Thank you.”

She couldn’t tell if the exhaustion was playing tricks on her eyes, but his slightly scarred hands seemed to tremble slightly as he reached for a cookie. 

Dylas stared at it for a second before taking a tentative bite. Chewed, slowly. Swallowed. Finished it in another bite, and then reached for a second one. (Frey couldn’t help but notice how the cookie, which had looked normal to her, seemed dwarfed in his hand, his awkward grip seemingly gentle around it).

She could see a small stain of chocolate left on his lips, and giggle.

“What happened to leaving some for Porco?” She asked.

Dylas shrugged bashfully around another bite, cheeks still slightly pink; his voice was low and soft when he spoke while chewing. 

“‘S a popular guy. I saw the pile in his room. He has enough.”

Frey’s laughter rang out in the empty restaurant, sounding just as light and bubbly as her heart currently felt.


	3. Chapter 3

Something was going on, and Margaret was going to get to the bottom of it.

It had started earlier this week, when she had been patrolling for litterers in the town square. Being still relatively early in the morning, especially after the rowdy celebrations from the festival the day before, the square was almost empty. Forte, Arthur, and Volkanon were near the town gate quietly going over a new security detail, and Clorica was sweeping sleepily near the castle door. 

This meant that Meg had a clear shot across the square. She did a double-take.

Frey was in her castle shop, resting her elbows on the counter and occasionally moving to shift a few things on the display. Dylas was outside, leaning on the stone wall next to her and resting against one long arm that was lazily stretched to just reach the shop’s awning. The two of them were smiling at each other and laughing.

Meg almost hadn’t thought anything of it, but then she realized this was _Dylas._

Luckily they seemed too lost in their own little world to notice her staring, though that in itself was enough to set off the gears in her brain.

It was soon going to be a year since Dylas first came to Selphia. Since she worked with him, Meg had watched as he started opening up to people, inch by inch, and she was relieved to see it.

It was still very slow going, though, especially with anyone outside the small family they had in the restaurant. This meant two things: _one_ , she hadn’t seen him open up to anyone quite like the way he seemed to be doing now— the way he grinned, the way he bit his lip whenever Frey would turn away, or even the way they were leaning towards each other— and _two_ , Frey had to be special to him.

 _Now that’s an exciting thought_.

Even though Frey had confided about her crush at a recent sleepover, Meg hadn’t really gotten the chance to observe the two of them in action. This moment was one of the first times the elf was seeing _actual_ flirting between the pair.

Dylas said something that made Frey laugh, and Meg watched in real-time as Dylas’ expression seemed to light up at the sight. Then the still-giggling princess leaned forward and poked him in the chest before ducking back into her room. From where she stood, Meg could see how Dylas blushed vividly, all the way down to his neck.

Margaret had tried to bring it up a few times before— how he seemed to be getting along with Frey, or the singles in town of marriageable age, or if there was anyone he liked— but each and every time, Dylas would clam up, deny everything, and shut down. Still, there was definitely _something_ going on. She couldn’t be sure what yet, but she was going to get to the bottom of it.

(She couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Lumie felt all the time).

* * *

The next time something happened was two days later, when Meg was standing outside the restaurant. The days were getting warmer, and playing her harp on a warm, breezy day was one of her favorite pastimes. A few minutes into her playing, Dylas walked out of the restaurant for his break. He gave her the tiniest stiff wave before walking to the area by the observatory

(Sometimes the elf liked to give him her brightest, heartiest greeting just to watch him jump, but she had come to find that his reactions to the soft, nonchalant greetings were just as sweet as well). 

After a bit, Meg switched to a melody so familiar that she could probably play it in her sleep, using the chance to spy around the area. Dylas was leaning over the ledge of the plaza and looking out at the scenery. It seemed Meg’s instincts were well-timed, because not a minute later she noticed Frey racing up the sidewalk stairs leading to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant with a stuffed-looking traveler’s backpack. 

Frey tripped over the last step, flying forward under the weight of her bag with an _oof_ and a resounding thud. 

In the second it took Meg to blink and process what had happened, a dark blur passed by her vision before she could even move forward to check on Frey. Dylas’s tall figure was suddenly there kneeling beside Frey, who immediately tried to sit up and then winced as she put weight on her leg. 

Meg, still a few feet away, found herself just watching. Again, they seemed to forget that the rest of the world existed. 

Dylas was muttering something that Meg had to lean forward to catch.

“Idiot, you should be more careful.” 

The elf couldn’t help but note that, despite his words, there was almost no bite to his voice when directed at Frey, especially when combined with the worry in his eyes. He pulled something out of his jacket and dabbed a piece of cloth in a liquid bottle— disinfectant?

“Sorry,” Frey winced.

Dylas carefully cleaned the large scrape with steady hands. “Where are you going with all that stuff anyway?” 

“I just came in from mining gems for Arthur.”

Dylas pulled out a roll of gauze and gently steadied a hand just above her knee, using his other hand to slowly wrap it.

“Why do you have all that?” Frey asked, long hair swaying as her head tilted to the side. Meg almost smirked when she noticed Dylas’ cheeks blush and the way he avoided her gaze.

He cleared his throat a bit. “When I first worked at Porco’s I kept hurting myself with all the knives and hot plates and stuff, so I started carrying these around out of habit. Guess I forgot to stop.”

Frey giggled behind her hand as he finished up. “Thanks.”

“N-no problem.” He stuffed the things back into his jacket and stood, offering her a hand. 

Then for a moment they just stood there _staring_ at each other. 

Meg couldn’t help but feel vaguely like a coat rack, with how invisible she currently was.

“W-well!” Frey yelped out, and the moment burst as both of them panicked. Frey reached to grab her bag, and picked it back up easily despite its weight. “I’m going to get going now! Um! Thanks again!”

She dashed into Arthur’s office, head ducked down in embarrassment. Dylas stood there for a few more moments, lost in thought. Then he brushed off his pants, cleared his throat, and walked down to the direction of the general store, as if forgetting he was only supposed to be on a short break from the restaurant.

Neither made any indication of noticing they had an onlooker.

Just the other day Frey had voiced her complaints that nothing was happening in the relationship, or lack thereof, but this didn’t seem like nothing. Margaret was determined to find out what was happening. Not for the sake of gossip, of course. Just to know. 

* * *

Though everyone in Selphia had wildly different schedules, the restaurant still had its pattern of busy times. The week after the knee-scraping incident started off with one of those Mondays where, on top of the normal lunch rush, all the younger peoples’ schedules seemed to line up; the restaurant’s biggest table was full of them. 

Meg, however, was on a mission. 

She sat instead at the smaller table against the wall, accompanied by a team she had put together of those who she considered Selphia’s most love-perceptive people: Leon, Arthur, Clorica, Nancy, and Jones. 

“You’re going to burn a hole in their heads with all of that staring, you know,” said Leon, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hmph.” Meg went back to her food, trying to be a bit more discreet with her side-long glances.

“To be fair, it doesn’t seem like they’re paying enough attention to notice,” Arthur said, casting his own glance at Dylas and Frey.

“In their own little world,” Clorica added dreamily.

Nancy beamed, taking Jones’ hand. “I know the feeling. You and I are just like that, sometimes.”

Meg shared a quiet look with Arthur and then went back to spying on the other table.

It did seem like they were in their own world, even though the whole table was full of multiple lively discussions: Kiel was waving his hands, Amber was sitting forward in her seat, Xiao Pai, Doug, Dolce, and Vishnal were interjecting with commentary, and Forte was quietly shaking her head. Meg couldn’t hear what anyone was actually saying, but it wasn’t the conversation so much as the way the pair in question _sat._

Though never once looking at each other, Frey and Dylas were side by side. Dylas was already done with his meal— anyone who ate with Porco regularly was either good at eating quickly or slapping hands away— but he was still listening with an angry look on his face to whatever Doug was arguing about. Casually leaning back in his chair, Dylas had one arm lazily slung around the chair next to him.

Frey was clearly doing her best to pay attention to the conversation, but Meg could see the lingering blush on her cheeks. Dylas, too, looked slightly distracted, but both of them kept up enough of the table’s rapport to make the scene look almost normal. _Almost._ The biggest thing was that despite their normalcy there was this lingering air of bashful, slightly anxious joy around them, to the point that it was basically palpable. Meg felt like she could pick it like an apple off a tree.

“It’s getting quite warm lately, isn’t it?” Arthur mused.

“Hmm, yes.” Leon’s low, amused voice drew Meg back. “Though I somehow doubt some of the rosy cheeks in this room are due to the weather.”

“You think so?” She relished in their comments. Having been unable to crack this _thing_ herself, she had rounded up this small team. The rest of them had apparently already noticed similar patterns among the pair in question, and joined up quickly when she shared the events she witnessed this past week.

“Who could say?”

“I think they could.” Jones drew his gaze from the other table. “Have you tried asking either of them?”

 _“Directly?”_ Meg almost sputtered. 

“Yes?”

“Oh no…” Clorica mumbled into her tea.

Nancy was giggling behind one hand, using the other to give Jones’ a small squeeze. “Oh, honey. You remember being young and shy, don’t you? I don’t know if coming out and just saying something will do the trick.”

“That may be, but… I think honesty could do them some good.”

“Ah,” Leon said, picking up his own teacup and clinking it against a happy Clorica’s. “But to do that, the suspects must first be honest with themselves.”

They all nodded, and went back to eating.

Frey threw her head back while laughing at something Dolce said, paying no notice to how she bumped into Dylas’ arm, her pigtails dragging over his sleeve. Once _again_ Meg found herself watching the man’s blush unfold right in front of her. 

Quickly, Dylas coughed into his fist before standing up and gathering the empty plates. It seemed like he was giving some kind of excuse of needing to go back to work, though Meg knew very well that he wasn’t scheduled until the dinner shift. 

She turned back to her table to see everyone else also watching the scene attentively.

“I’m not imagining this, right? There’s no way it’s an accident?”

“I think I’d find that even if I _didn’t_ wear my glasses I could still notice—” Arthur cut himself off as Dylas walked over to their table, silently grabbing their empty plates.

Arthur cleared his throat and continued easily, as casual as the breeze. “The mess of my office. You’re very right, Margaret, I really should do some spring cleaning.”

“You lose your glasses?” Dylas asked.

Arthur smiled up at him. “Thankfully, no.”

“Don’t you have enough replacement pairs?” Clorica asked.

“Oh, no. I’m afraid none of those would do. My daily glasses are special, you see, and specifically designed to—” 

Dylas gave a look like everyone at the table had grown a second head before walking away with a precariously tall stack of plates. 

As soon as Dylas left, Arthur dropped the conversational filler. 

Meg glanced back at her team, as if part of a conspiracy. “I’m definitely not imagining things, right?”

“Definitely not,” Nancy giggled.

“And we’re going to do something about it?”

Leon’s slow grin was well and truly fox-like. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Something was going on and Frey wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to find out what. 

While she wasn’t exactly a fan of rainy days, they at least left her with extra energy. This meant that the wet weather lately left Frey with a lot of time to spend exploring, rather than farming. Today, though, she was only an hour into mining gems when she realized she had no idea what her stock was at home.

Feeling that she couldn’t really be productive, Frey called an airship back to Selphia much earlier than she had anticipated. Her bones were already aching when she got off the ship. She had probably pushed herself a bit too hard lately. Maybe she’d take a long, hot bath and spend the day working on some new recipes.

She was about to head in the direction of the bathhouse when her stomach gave a hearty protest. Had she eaten breakfast that morning? Probably not…

Frey turned on her heel.

When she opened the door to the restaurant she found that even though it was early, it had a surprising amount of people. Margaret, Leon, Arthur, Clorica, Nancy, and Porcoline were all sitting at one table, leaning towards a greyish-pallored Dylas who sat in a chair haphazardly crammed at the end.

Frey was about to greet the group when she realized that a total silence had fallen over the room. Was it just her, or did everyone— except Dylas, who was simply staring blankly ahead— look surprised to see her?

“Um…”

“Why hello, Frey.” It was Leon who spoke up, instantly smiling, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Quite terrible weather we’re having today, right?”

It was drizzling; Selphia luckily hadn’t had a thunderstorm in a while.

“I wouldn’t say _terrible_.” She couldn’t keep the confusion out of her voice. Why were they still staring at her?

Belatedly, Dylas’ head whipped around towards her. His already wide-opened eyes doubled, and he stumbled to shove back from the table with a loud protest from his chair. 

“I’m going,” he said somewhat harshly, as he made his way towards the front door.

He made no eye contact as he approached her, shouldered the door open, and almost left before seeming to decide against it.

Turning and staring pointedly _next_ to her, Dylas stammered out, “This weekend. 10am. Meet me at Selphia Square.”

It took a minute of him standing half-wet in the doorway, his long hair already beginning to stick to his chin and one damp ear twitching in annoyance, to make Frey realize he was actually addressing her. 

Was he challenging her to a fight?

“Oh, um. Sure?” 

He nodded, still not quite looking at her, and shrugged out into the rain.

There was a tremor building up in Frey’s hand, and a pit in her stomach. 

She turned towards the table of people, who were currently all holding expressions somewhere between surprise and resignation. 

“Did I miss something?” She asked.

It was Nancy who cleared her throat and spoke. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about this weekend.” 

“Right…”

Porcoline stood up, his regular dazzling smile returning to his face as he approached her. He looked like he was about to give her a hug, but then didn’t. That was strange. Porco never stopped himself from hugging her.

“You came here for something, yes? Perhaps one of my new brunch recipes, dripping with love from none other than moi?”

“Oh! Um, yes please.”

* * *

The rest of the week passed for Frey in a nervous blur. Despite the fact that they had become so close lately, Dylas was suddenly distant. He wasn’t entirely ignoring her, but when he glanced at her it was only for a second, when he spoke to her it was only a few words, and it seemed like he was doing everything in his power not to touch her. Actually, at some point she had run into him while fishing, and noticed he had a twig in his hair. When she moved to pull it out, without even thinking about it, he had flailed so much that he actually _fell_ into the lake with a hearty splash. That had caused a big laugh amongst the other townspeople, and Frey automatically chuckled along, though she couldn’t help but feel like something was going on.

Maybe… maybe it wasn’t _despite_ the fact that they had gotten so close. Maybe it was because of it. 

Frey had, as of recently, tried to “flirt.” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was doing it right— she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing it all, actually. Lately, when she was around Dylas she got lost in a happy, almost giddy feeling. They weren’t exactly butterfly nerves, since it was more like the first minute after she’d try a really strong perfume and her nose suddenly couldn’t smell anything else. She’d leave their interaction with fondness over what they had done or talked about, but not entirely aware of what those things actually were. It was like a blur.

Her friends would grill Frey on it after. Had she winked? She didn’t know. Had she playfully swatted his shoulder, breaking the, as Xiao Pai put it, “touch barrier” between them? She wasn’t sure. Had she “accidentally” tripped so she would fall against his chest? That one she could actually say no to— it hadn’t been an accident, and she had landed on the floor.

All Frey knew was this: every time she was around Dylas her cheeks would hurt from joy, every time he smiled his real, honest smile she felt like the world’s colors got suddenly brighter, and every time they made contact— brushing his arm, his hand on her shoulder, that one time she had gotten away with poking his cheek— her entire body went warm, like she was hugging a cozy Wooly.

But that hadn’t been the case this week. 

Today was the night before they were supposed to meet, and the acting princess of Selphia was currently spending her time lying awake in bed regretting every choice she had ever made, whether she could remember them or not.

Maybe she should cut her hair.

Frey felt she knew Dylas well enough by now to be able to tell if something big was bothering him, and the fact that he wouldn’t tell her now _hurt_. Then Frey realized she was probably the reason; he had caught onto her flirting, and no doubt when he met her tomorrow Dylas was going to tell her to stop. She would stop, of course, because she respected his boundaries, but logic didn’t stop the inevitable heartbreak. 

She loved him. She loved Dylas.

_Oh._

It was from that week of distance, all culminated into her current sleepless pity party, that Frey realized that what she felt for the— slightly infuriating— man wasn’t simply affection or curiosity, but love. Frey well and truly loved him. 

She loved how even though his stride was usually impossible to catch up with, whenever the two of them walked together he’d slow down to match her pace without saying a word. She loved the expressive sway of his tail, and the soft set of his ears; both were mentions of his past, of a monster form he’s made clear he doesn’t want to remember, but were still part of him nonetheless, and so she loved them. 

She loved his hands, squarish, flat, long, slightly scarred and calloused just like hers, but so warm and solid. She loved his blush, how his face always seemed to not have enough room for it, so the color would crawl down his neck too. She loved his habits, how he woke up to go fishing even earlier than she did, loved his muttered complaining, his messy eyebrows, and she loved how as short as his temper could be his kindness was (secretly) infinite. 

Then there was his smile, the real one. Frey’s only seen one New Year’s Eve pass in Selphia, and it was really the only one she could remember at all, but watching Dylas’ smile dawn over his expression like daybreak made her feel like she’s watched many more new years begin and end in a single moment. And his laugh… that one she couldn’t even describe.

Then she thought of all the things she didn’t love yet, the things she couldn’t because she didn’t know Dylas enough, the things that she had looked forward to secretly, but shouldn’t now: his face when he was asleep, his tousled hair when he just woke up, the feel of his lips against hers, the truth behind his past, how he felt becoming a guardian, or how it felt to be held by him— all things that somebody else, whether she ever met that person or not, would get to know one day. 

_Sigh._

Well, that was enough of that. 

Frey was an optimist. She’d continue to be friends with him, her feelings would eventually fade, and all would be right in the beautiful little town of Selphia. But first she had to fall asleep. 

Maybe she’d take a walk.

* * *

_“Dylas.”_

  
Dylas looked up, stopping mid-way from where he was currently pacing a hole in Porcoline’s floor. His room had started to feel too crowded, so he had taken his nervous energy to the hallway.

Arthur was standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him with a weird mix of annoyance and bemusement. It seemed like he had tried calling Dylas' name a few times. Normally Dylas would scowl at the _What am I going to do with you?_ face, but he honestly felt too stressed to care. 

“What?”

Arthur raised a brow and sighed between a smile. “You’re free to do whatever you’d like in our own home,” _home_ , something about that word made a part of Dylas twitch but he wasn’t sure why, “but I’m afraid I can’t work under the sound of your constant footsteps. Should I ask what’s wrong?”

Dylas crossed his arms. “You’re still working?”

The blonde shrugged. “It’s not that late.” 

They both knew that was a lie.

Arthur’s gaze was far too _knowing_ . Dylas knew that if he were in actual trouble, Arthur would be one of the first to try and help. The fact that Arthur had only indirectly asked meant he already knew what was troubling Dylas, which was no surprise considering he had been part of the group of Selphians who had cornered him into a lecture about _honesty,_ which had then kicked up so much dust in Dylas’ gut that none of it was settling right anymore. It wouldn’t until he told her.

Tomorrow. Almost.

“Sorry for distracting you,” Dylas mumbled. After a few moments of silence he added, “I think I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“Ah. That seems smart.” 

God, that knowing, pleasant smile of Arthur’s was sometimes infuriating. But, Dylas thought as he followed the other down the stairs, he supposed that’s what people loved about Arthur. 

Love.

He didn’t want to think about that word anymore. Not tonight— he’d save it for tomorrow. 

When Dylas stepped out of Arthur’s office he allowed himself a moment to stop and breathe in the night air. It had the heavy warmth that meant summer was around the corner, but still, the breeze was a relief from the stuffiness of being indoors. 

He thought to go out by the lake, or even the Water Ruins, but… Dylas impulsively turned left and climbed up the stairs of the observatory. The night was somewhat cloudy, so he wouldn’t be able to see much, but that didn’t really matter to him. If anything, the weather would mean there wouldn’t be anyone else there.

Opening the door immediately proved him wrong.

Frey was leaning over the railing, pigtails blowing softly around her in the breeze. From where she stood Dylas could just see the outline of her profile. She hadn’t seen or heard him yet. 

He could still leave, quietly, and pretend he never saw her.

Something in the furrow of her brows, though, looked so incredibly _sad_ that he just couldn’t. He didn’t even have to think about it— the sight of Frey upset made his insides twist up so much that before he even realized it he was already moving to lean next to her. 

“Frey?”

She jumped, hands momentarily slipping from the railing before she turned her wide-eyed gaze on him. 

Frey looked like she was about to say something, so Dylas just waited for her to speak, awkwardly shifting his weight between his legs. Even in the low light Dylas could see the pink blush against her cheeks. 

After a long pause she cleared her throat, staring at her own white-knuckle grip on the railing.

“Dylas. Are you… out for a walk?”

He wasn’t sure what it was, but the weird mix of starlight behind a cloudy sky made Dylas feel like his eyes were playing tricks on him; he couldn’t tell if Frey’s hair looked unusually dark or unusually pale, if the slope of her muscular shoulders looked softer or more rigid than normal. She looked… Well. He couldn’t find the words for it. He had never been able to find the words for her.

It was only after she turned to look at him again, searching and confused, that Dylas realized he hadn’t actually answered her yet. Crap.

“Oh. Um— yeah. A walk.” 

_Great job, Dylas, very well-said._ He had to fight off the urge to repeatedly bang his head against the wall behind them.

“That’s great. It’s, um,” she started. “A great night for a walk.” 

“Yeah.” 

Neither of them felt the need to point out the ridiculously late hour, or the crummy weather above them. Actually, neither of them pointed out anything. Dylas would find the silence awkward if his body wasn’t too busy trying to send him to an early grave; his heart was thundering in his chest, and every time he thought about all the feelings he had to somehow figure out how to express tomorrow, his “planning” (which as of now had consisted of angrily berating himself in the mirror) felt entirely useless. 

So they stood there, Dylas leaning against his elbows and Frey clenching and unclenching her hands around the railing. He tried to keep his focus on the scenery of Selphia, the town he had lived in now for about a year. 

Damn.

It had been a whole year. A whole year of change and adjustments, yeah, but of little things too, of pleasant routines and long, boring days. A whole year of— 

Dylas wasn’t entirely sure if he was ready to call Selphia home, yet. 

It was where Venti was, where he was starting to recover his memories, and it was where he had actually grown close to people. Where he almost had a family. But the word still felt foreign to his tongue, like he couldn’t picture it. When he tried to, all he saw was green. Green eyes, green ponytails. 

Dammit.

He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, but at that exact moment, Frey did too.

“It’s—”

“You—”

They abruptly stopped and blinked at each other. 

“Go ahe—” 

“You can—”

Dylas leaned further against his elbows, so he could tilt his head and look up at Frey.

“You go first,” he managed to say, internally cursing how tense he sounded.

“Okay.” Frey moved to look out over the horizon, almost like she was addressing Selphia itself. “Um. I’m sorry if this is awkward. I just noticed you’ve been kind of distant lately.” 

Even to Dylas she sounded nervous, but still her voice held that kind confidence behind it that it always had. He wasn’t sure how she did it. He was always in awe of her. 

“And I just wanted to let you know,” Frey continued, “That if I did anything to make you uncomfortable, or if I went too far with something, I’m really sorry, Dylas. I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

_Wait, what?_

“What?”

“I mean, if— like, if I’ve been doing something that’s upsetting you, ” she said, and Frey’s nervous energy seemed to boil over as her eyes skirted around him frantically, not sure where to land, her hands moving to punctuate her sentences, “or I’ve been coming on too strongly because I like you but you want me to back off— you can just tell me!”

“Hey—” In a panic he stood up to his full height.

“I promise I’ll respect your choices, and I’m sorry if I haven’t so far—”

“Frey—”

“I know you were probably going to tell me tomorrow to leave you alone, but I just wanted to let you know that I will, I just— I don’t want you to hate me!”

It felt like Dylas’ heart entirely stopped beating in his chest.

“ _What?_ Are you stupid!?”

Finally Frey’s eyes seemed to land on him and stay there, as wide as saucers as she searched his face. “What?”

“Frey—” Dylas was so shocked he couldn’t keep his voice down, “I don’t hate you! Are you an idiot? I love you!”

“Wha—”

“Why— how on Earth could I hate you!?” He sounded absolutely indignant. “You’re— you’re so nice, and cool, and ridiculously selfless, and hilarious, and strong— so much stronger than I’ll ever be! Even when I was a total asshole you talked to me every day, and fished with me, and cooked with me. I mean dammit, Frey, I know that you’re too good for me, but I could never hate you. How could you even think that?”

Dylas was almost panting when he stopped talking, and it took him a moment to realize Frey wasn’t saying anything back. She was looking at him, somehow even more shocked than before, and Dylas could see tears pooling in her eyes. Oh.

“Crap—” he said, softer this time, and though his instinct was to reach out to her, Dylas’s hands stopped mid-air, unsure if his touch was something she wanted right now. “I-I’m sorry Frey, I didn’t mean to— maybe I should just…”

“You love me?”

_Oh._

As if the oncoming summer didn’t make it intolerably hot enough, Dylas could feel a vivid blush climb up from the bottom of his neck to the top of his face, to the point that his ears were suddenly twitching in the still night air. 

Were the two of them suddenly standing closer?

Had he moved forward, or had Frey?

Dylas felt like an idiot. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He had a speech planned (well, “planned,” anyway) out tomorrow, and the food, and—

He raised his hand to scratch at the back of his neck. 

“Uh, I mean I wasn’t going to tell you like this, but…” there was a long pause as Dylas gathered all the courage he physically had. “Yeah. I do. I-I love you, Frey.”

He watched as a big smile— somehow watery and solid all at once— spread over Frey’s face, and her expression crumbled with some overwhelming emotion.

She took the last step and a half forward, dropping her head against Dylas’ chest. When he hesitantly moved to run his hands through the soft green strands of her pigtails, Frey muttered into the fabric of his clothes, “I love you too, Dylas.”

“R-really!?”

Her arms were looped around his back now, and he felt her balk against his chest. “O-of course I do! What do you mean ‘really?’” 

His heartbeat pounded against his chest, and he was sure Frey could hear it, but suddenly he felt so impossibly _happy_ that he didn’t care. Moving his arms to wrap around her fully, Dylas pulled Frey closer into the hug. A moment later the two of them were laughing. 

He felt…almost giddy. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t _want_ to help it.

“Dylas.” This time Frey sounded _really_ muffled against his chest. “You’re squeezing me.”

“Crap, sorry—” he let her go quickly, taking a step back, but she beamed at him so brightly that it felt like his pulse might just up and quit entirely.

After a beat of silence, Frey said, “I have a question. I— well, actually, I have a _lot_ of questions,” Dylas made a slightly sheepish face but she continued, “but it’s late, so for now I’ll only ask one.”

“Go ahead.”

“You said ‘I wasn’t going to tell you like this.’ What did that mean?”

“Oh.” Dylas blushed again (or maybe he had never stopped), and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Uh… that’s why I asked to meet you tomorrow. I was— uh.” He swallowed. “G-gonna tell you then, I made stuff for a picnic.”

“A picnic! Really?”

He managed a nod. “We could…still go? I’ll make the rest of the food in the morning, and I’ll tell you properly, this time. Uh. Less yelling. Only if you want.”

Frey beamed again, somehow even brighter than before. It was almost blinding.

“I’d love that.”

He could feel the heat prickling under the skin of his neck. Overcome, Dylas had to look away. He could feel Frey giggle beside him before she also turned, and the two of them looked over at the scenery. Even with Selphia sprawling out in front of him, though, Dylas’ thoughts weren’t on the landscape; all he could think about was Frey, her soft hair, her friendly eyes, her pink lips… 

Damn. Damn. 

And she loved him. She loved _him_. 

It was all Dylas could do not to put his face in his hands and stay like that ‘till morning. They had just confessed to each other, he didn’t want to freak her out right away.

After a few minutes of letting the evening breeze cool his skin, Dylas finally felt calm enough to turn back to the princess next to him. She didn’t look back right away, and he took the chance to study Frey’s profile. Just like the rest of her, it was somehow delicate and strong all at once. 

From this angle, Dylas noticed something in Frey’s hair, just behind her ear. It looked like a twig— she must have gone out to the forest today. 

“You have a…”

“Huh?” She turned to him, tilting her head to the side. The twig fell farther into her hair.

“Here.” Dylas reached out carefully, taking a step towards her. He forgot how much he had been leaning against the observatory railing, though, and his foot caught against one of the bars, sending him flying forward.

“Woah!” 

Frey startled and immediately shot her hands out, but Dylas’ long legs tangled and sent the two of them sprawling forward until he could finally catch himself. 

There were a few long beats of silence, where Frey didn’t say anything at all. Dylas didn’t understand why until he shook off his confusion, and realized their positions: he had braced himself with either hand against the railing around Frey, but the suddenness of the fall had sent his weight tumbling forward so that he was entirely hovering over her. Frey, who he realized had also tried to catch him, had both of her palms spread out against his chest, and was leaning back against the metal bars of the railing.

Her face was barely an inch from his. For the first time he could see freckles all across the bridge of her nose. Even though his legs were already starting to ache from the awkward position they had landed in, and the metal bar was digging into where he was putting all of his weight against his hands, Dylas didn’t dare move a muscle.

_She’s so close…_

Frey’s eyes, which were a dark green under the late, cloudy sky, flicked down to look at his lips and then back up into his eyes. Immediately the heat rushed to Dylas’ face, leaving a vivid, dark stain on his cheeks. Nerves ran through his veins and his ears were twitching in anticipation. 

Her words from just a few minutes ago came back to him. _I love you too, Dylas._

_I love you._

Before he even fully realized it, Dylas was leaning forward to press his lips to hers. After a careful moment both of them closed their eyes, and Frey started to move her lips against his.

The feeling was new, and strange, and overwhelming, and exciting, and Dylas’ heart was drumming against his chest like it might break free at any moment. He was completely lost to the soft texture of her lips, though, to the way they felt when he slanted his lips against hers. Frey reached up to loop her arms around his neck and pull him further downward, deepening the kiss, and Dylas shifted his weight against one arm so he could use the other to carefully loop around her waist, until the long line of his body was hovering against her lean, short frame, with only a breath between them. 

He could feel the heat radiating off of her, or maybe that was his own feverish body heat.

When they broke apart both of them were breathing heavily, and for a few, blissful moments Dylas could literally process nothing other than the empty void Frey had rendered his thoughts into.

Then she was giggling, a happy sound as bright as windchimes, that made Dylas’ insides do happy somersaults. 

“Wh-what?” He asked.

“Hehehe. Nothing, it’s just— I like the look on your face.” Frey reached up to pinch gently at his cheek, and of course Dylas’ body immediately reacted, blushing at the contact.

“I-idiot,” he muttered, dropping his forehead to rest against the crown of her head. 

Even now he still wasn’t sure what this feeling in his chest was. There was love in there for sure, but there was something else, too. And when they spent the whole night chatting away at the top of the observatory, leaning more against each other than the actual railing, elbows and shoulders bumping together, they looked out over Selphia, and… to Dylas, it felt like he was seeing the town for the first time all over again.


	4. Chapter 4

He wanted to say it had happened in the blink of an eye. It hadn’t, though. It happened right in front of him, and he still hadn’t been able to stop it. 

In what felt like no time at all, two years had passed since Dylas and Frey’s confessions. Back then they made their relationship official with a picnic, and that became a tradition. So, this morning they packed up their food, dug out their fishing rods, and traveled arm-in-arm to spend their second anniversary having a relaxing day at Sercerezo Lake **.**

Where Dylas might usually be somewhat embarrassed with showing affection, that morning he felt his nerves ease up, bit by bit, until he had been happily pulling Frey to sit in the space between his legs so that she could rest her head against his chest. She’d reach up to feed him bites of sashimi and he’d lazily cast his fishing line into the pond. 

That had probably been his mistake: getting so comfortable. He should have known better.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed like that, but it definitely wasn’t long enough. When the sun was lazily beating down on them, and Dylas started to feel drowsy with the warm weight of Frey against him, he felt a pull on his line— almost like a warning.

Then… he wasn’t entirely sure of what happened next. It was a blur in the moment, and it was a blur now, with the adrenaline that still coursed through his veins. The sky had suddenly grown very dark and a stampede of monsters burst into the area, cornering them in the small clearing of the lake. 

Elefun, Schmooly, Yellow Fairies. They were all monsters that they should have been able to handle easily, but in such unbelievable quantities (and without their proper gear) it had all been overwhelming. Even monsters that weren’t normally nearby flooded the scene until they were overwhelmed. 

Dylas trusted Frey with his life, honestly more than he trusted himself with it, but even then it was too much to keep him from panicking. Standing back-to-back they tried to at least clear a path to run, but the monsters were as unrelenting as waves crashing onto an ocean shore. 

Then, after the fatigue was already setting in, with both Frey and Dylas’ health and stamina running low, came the big one: a Minotaur King, a long way from Leon Karnak. It must have been what scared all the other monsters towards them, though why it came to the lake at all was beyond Dylas.

There was a vicious fight— Frey and Dylas against the Minotaur King— that they probably could have won had their energy not been so drained already. On top of that, with all the other monsters still around, it was like trying to dig a hole in a quicksand— everything would just start leaking from another side. All sides.

The fighting, the spellcasting, getting separated from Frey; being forced to listen to her grunt, scream, without being able to get to her felt like agony, urgency ripping at Dylas’ skin. His moves got desperate, the swing of his clawed gauntlets more wide and violent, and the last bursts of lightning magic took every bit of energy he had.

Still, there was a sequence of events that were still as clear as day to Dylas now: 

  1. The way Frey, terrifyingly fearless and brave as always, launched herself at the Minotaur King— and was swatted mid-air out of the sky like a rag doll. 
  2. The shout that ripped itself out of Dylas’ throat as he raged forward, shoving everything else aside. 
  3. The pulse that hammered against his skin, _get to her, get to her, get to her._
  4. Perhaps most devastatingly, the momentary flood of relief when Frey, warrior-princess and love his of his life, just got back up again and fought beside him, only to be immediately dashed when Dylas was suddenly the one sent flying with a giant kick to the side, deep-rooted pain overcoming him as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. 
  5. And after, the second wave of pain, bone-deep and hitting harder still as the initial shock wore off. He was lying in the grass, barely able to raise up onto his elbows in time to see the giant fist of the Minotaur King swinging his way. With the state he was in, that would be the final blow for Dylas. There was no white light, no life flashing before his eyes, just roaring sounds and rushing wind and strands of his purple-blue hair whipping in front of his eyes.



The only thing Dylas could think of was to thank the _gods_ that this was him instead of Frey, because she would be devastated (even though he still couldn’t entirely wrap his head around why she loved him so much or what she saw in him, he knew she did) but at least she’d be safe. He couldn’t handle Frey getting seriously hurt, not again.

Anything worse than that and even Dylas’ thoughts couldn’t go there.

And then, as if fate— or the dragon gods, or whatever cosmic entity he barely even believed in— heard his thoughts and wanted to spite him, suddenly there was a flash of green, white, and beige soaring through the sky, again being knocked mid-air like a rag doll. 

This time, though, Frey didn’t get back up. 

After that was the most blurred part of all. His vision went green, mint-green, and he could hear violent, raging sounds that were probably his own; there were lighting flashes bright enough to fell the trees and light up the area, rivaling the grey clouds hanging above them. 

Then he was running on empty, using a new well of strength to sprint forward, haul Frey into his arms and cast an Escape spell over and over until his feet were stumbling against the familiar pavement of Selphia’s front gates.

(He wasn’t even sure how he got to the clinic, he just remembered sounds of distress from whatever poor tourists and villagers were in the area).

What made Dylas so angry at himself now was that he could have seen it coming, _should_ have seen it coming, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t, and now Frey was hurt, lying in one of the clinic’s beds, as pale as the sheets around her. 

Worst of all, though: she was entirely silent. No groans, no tossing and turning, no ragged breathing. The only indications she was alive at all were Jones’ reassurances and the slightest, barely noticeable rise and fall of her chest. 

Dammit.

Long after Jones and Nancy went upstairs— telling Dylas to call them if he needed something or if Frey’s condition changed— Dylas was still pacing up and down the length of the clinic. He only stopped in his tracks when he suddenly tasted blood, and realized he had bitten his lips between his teeth until they were almost completely raw. With a frustrated sigh he moved to run his hands through his hair, only to find that his hands were shaking so badly that he nearly smacked himself in the face in the process. Actually, all of him was shaking, from the tremulous line of his shoulders to his jittery, tapping foot. His pulse stammered out a near-delirious rhythm against his throat.

When the adrenaline finally wore off and the exhaustion of the day set in, it was all Dylas could do to drag a chair over to Frey’s bedside and slump into it. Cramming his legs awkwardly into the tight space meant that the bed frame dug uncomfortably into the flesh of his knees, but he didn’t care. He needed to be as close to Frey as possible.

There she was. The person he loved most in this world, lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Sweat plastered pale-green strands of her hair to her forehead, and Dylas found himself leaning forward to brush it out of her eyes with as gentle a touch as he could muster. Then he moved to carefully hold one of her hands in both of his. After a few minutes of trying to memorize the feel of her fingers, her palms, with his eyes still on Frey’s ashen face Dylas brought their joined hands up to press a kiss against her fingers. 

_Come on, Frey,_ he thought. 

* * *

The first thing Frey felt was an itch under her nose. She tried to ignore it, she really did, because something in her, in the darkness behind her closed eyes, was absolutely _exhausted._ All she wanted to do was to go back to sleep, but it was the kind of itch that wouldn’t be ignored. 

So, while not even conscious enough yet to think to open her eyes, Frey finally mustered up the energy to raise her hand and scratch at her face. She didn’t quite get there though; she wasn’t sure what, but there was some kind of weight on her hand. After enough mild-struggling to wiggle her hand away from whatever it was, Frey finally decided she was awake enough that there was no point in trying to go back to sleep anymore.

Finally she opened her eyes, and that was when Frey realized… she wasn’t at home. She was in the clinic.

Honestly, this happened often enough that it wasn’t surprising to her now; the pale white sheets, the shelves full of medicine, and the way the orange sunset light filtered onto the walls were all familiar sights. What wasn’t familiar was that warm, slightly rough weight. 

She glanced down to see a familiar hand cupped around hers, gripping her rather tightly. She blinked back up to see Dylas, her boyfriend, slouched forward on a rickety wooden chair. Even though his hair had fallen around his face like a curtain, Frey can just see the way his eyes are closed, dozing softly underneath a set of harsh lines between his furrowed brows. 

Frey was moving before she realized it, softly reaching forward to try and smooth away his wrinkles with her fingertips

He woke up with a start, and Frey blinked a few moments too before she realized what she had done.

“Oh—” she said, then had to swallow away the dryness in her throat before starting again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I moved without thinking.”

“‘S fine.” He blinked at her, still slightly sleepy. 

Then all at once, Frey watched his expression change, amber eyes opening wide as he startled forward, leaning on his elbows and reaching his other hand so that they were both grabbing hers. 

“You’re— you’re awake!” he looked over his shoulder, at the staircase behind them. “Should I grab—” he looked back at her, “Are you—?”

He stopped when Frey started giggling. She tried to stifle it against her hand, but a blush still rose quickly to Dylas’ cheeks. Still, he didn’t avert his eyes like he normally would, all his attention still trained on her even if he looked slightly sheepish while doing it— like if he looked away for even a second, she might disappear. Something warm and slightly sad stirred inside of her, but still Frey kept giggling, overcome with fondness.

“Wh- why’re you laughing?”

“I— ahaha— sorry, sorry.” Her cheeks already hurt from smiling. “It’s just so sweet to see you worrying like this.”

His cheeks turned a darker shade of red. This time Dylas did avert his eyes, though not entirely from her. He focused on their joined hands, where his were absently playing with her knuckles, tracing random patterns into her skin.

“‘Course I was worried,” he mumbled, and Frey had to strain to hear him.

A wry, slightly apologetic smile pulled at her lips. “Was it bad? I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Dylas looked at her again, studying the features of her face like he was trying to make sure she hadn’t grown a second head. Frey stared back, confused, until it suddenly hit her: what had happened earlier today. What she woke up from. Why she was here in the first place.

“Oh,” she said, quietly this time.

She reached over with her free hand to try and smooth out the wrinkles that were still on Dylas’ forehead, then dropped down to cup his cheek. He leaned into her touch, and a wave of love hit Frey so strongly that she almost started to tremble.

“Don’t look so sad, Dylas.” Her voice came out soft, gentle. “See, I’m fine, right? Everything turned out okay.” 

“ _Fine?_ Frey, you—” Frey watched as the emotions she had once felt so closed off from flashed clearly across Dylas’ face: anger, worry, sadness, relief. He sighed, took a deep breath, and lowered the volume of his voice. “You really made me worry there. Please, don’t… do that again. If something happened to you, I—” his jaw tensed before Frey watched him swallow. 

His voice went even lower than usual, sounding strained. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

She traced her thumb over his cheekbone. “I won’t let anything hurt you, Dylas. I’ll always try to protect you, just like you try to protect me. But— I’ll also try to be more careful from now on, okay?”

He still looked worried, still looked tired, but more than that Dylas looked tender, eyes impossibly soft as he leaned forward to press a kiss against her forehead. 

Frey smiled fondly at him as the color rose to her cheeks, before she settled back against the pillows. She didn’t want to go back to sleep just yet. 

For a few minutes they simply sat there, the act of being near to each other bringing them peace. 

Frey reveled in watching the way the last few reddish-orange rays of sun seeping through the windows seemed to change the color of Dylas’ hair entirely— dark blue, purple, she couldn’t quite tell, he almost looked like the gently shifting shades of the waters in a deep lake at night. 

She didn’t know what was on his mind in that moment (which, unbeknownst to Frey, were thoughts of warmth, of home, of her presence, and most of all, ideas of a ring, of what he could make her, and how he could ask her), and she didn’t mind. She didn’t have to read him _all_ the time. Just when it counted. Just when he let her. 

It was Dylas who broke the silence.

“I-I love you, Frey. You know that, right?”

Despite her exhaustion, Frey felt the smile on her lips, big and full and genuine.

“I love you too, Dylas.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dylas wasn’t sure what woke him up: the flashes of lightning regularly lighting up the bedroom, the thunder booming outside of the castle walls, or the person currently clinging to his chest. It took him a minute of blinking up at the roof to put the pieces together. It was probably that last thing.

That one was what concerned him the most anyway.

The first time he had woken up next to Frey had been breathtaking. The serene way that her eyelashes were fluttered close, how her nightgown rested over the soft, lean slopes of her shoulders and hips, and the pink and silver scars that he could see across the planes of her skin— all had worked together to leave Dylas basically useless, as he spent an embarrassingly long time simply watching her sleep. After that, when waking up next to her had become a happy, happy habit, sometimes he’d go back to sleep, and other times he’d stay there until Frey woke up too, flashing him a small, bright smile. 

This time wasn’t quite the same, though. 

His wife was currently trembling in bed next to him, the sheets twisted and kicked off around her. She was curled up against her side, one arm thrown around his chest and gripping the fabric of his robe tightly. 

Dylas sat up against one elbow to hover over Frey, as if his body could shield her from the storm outside, and he ran his free hand carefully through the long, loose strands of her hair. For a moment the bowstring-taught tenseness of her shoulders loosened, just slightly, and the wrinkles of her furrowed forehead lightened, but then the window lit up with a bright flash of lightning. A clap of thunder followed soon after, and Frey tensed up next to him again.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but Dylas was still almost just as shocked every time since he first found out: Frey’s afraid of thunderstorms. Astraphobic, as he had once heard Leon put it.

They had been exploring some field together— honestly, Dylas doesn’t remember where, and he’s not even sure he knew then either, since he had quickly gotten into the habit of just saying ‘yes’ without needing to hear the details whenever Frey asked him to go somewhere with her— when the sky seemed to suddenly erupt into a giant storm. After ducking into the nearest cave they had decided to just wait it out. 

What Dylas _does_ remember is realizing that Frey had been putting on a brave face for the first ten minutes, when he finally noticed her trembling like a leaf. 

Shocked, he had pulled her towards her, holding her against his chest as they sat against one of the cavern walls, when she confessed to him her fear of thunderstorms; actually, it was something Frey had figured out the hard way during her first typhoon in Selphia. She told him it was a fear she must have developed before the amnesia, since it was apparently still etched into her muscle memory.

Dylas also remembered Frey’s tears, how she had apologized, saying even though she knew the fear was irrational and stupid she still couldn’t help it. There was some amount of self-deprecation in her voice, then, as if she wasn’t allowed to have fears just because she was Selphia’s princess. 

It had caught him off guard. Of course she had fears, everyone did, but Frey was so strong, so incredibly brave, that Dylas had almost forgotten she could have them too. 

Back then he had held her close, stroked her back and mumbled soft words into her hair that he hadn’t entirely been aware of— he just let his lips move, let them say whatever they wanted, whatever he was always thinking about her but rarely had the courage to say aloud— while he focused on the feeling of Frey against him. Dylas did the same thing now, leaning against his elbow and stroking her hair, pulling her close to his side. 

A few minutes passed like this, with the steady downpour of rain drumming against the walls and windows, until there was a clap of thunder so loud that Frey fully woke up. She jostled against Dylas with a start, and he let his hand settle on her shoulder.

“Dylas?” 

He could see Frey was out of breath already, eyes slightly frantic as they adjusted to the low lighting of the room. 

“Yeah. I’m here.” He cleared the raspiness out of his throat and spoke in a murmur. “You’re alright.”

“Is it thund—?” She was cut off, and this time when lightning lit up the room Dylas could see her face as she jumped again, still shaking. After the following thunder boomed, louder this time as if the storm was passing directly over them, Frey laughed shakily, staring down at where her hands were now gripping the fabric of the sheets bed sheets around them. “I guess that answers my question. If this is a typhoon I’ll probably have a lot of work to do on the farm tomorrow.”

“Don’t think it’s supposed to be a typhoon yet. Probably just a storm.” Dylas glanced over at the calendar on their wall, though it’s not like he could make out the weather report from here.

“P-probably,” she repeated, and he could see Frey brace herself when the lightning and thunder came again.

There was a gap in bed between where they were resting, now. 

“I… I’m not even sure why thunderstorms bother me so much, honestly,” Frey admitted in a quiet voice, barely audible over the storm. “It’s not like rain bothers me. Or your lightning magic, either.” Dylas had to strain to hear her, but still he clung onto her every word. “Apparently, if I can see someone control it then it’s fine. I don’t really understand it… I wish I knew what started it, or at least _when._ Maybe then I could stop it.”

Dylas moved to lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t have to look at Frey to know she was waiting, patiently. She recognized when he was trying to put his thoughts together to find the right words.

Finally, he settled on a shrug, voice matching hers at a near-whisper. “You don’t… have to understand it. You’re scared of thunderstorms. That’s fine. Everyone’s scared of somethin’.”

“Oh yeah?” She sounded more like her usual self, as a note of teasing crept into her voice. She poked his side, and Dylas glared at the ceiling, mentally kicking himself. “What are you scared of?”

Dylas scoffed. He could think of a lot of things. And he knew Frey could, too. But she always seemed to point out how irrational this fear was to her, so he had to think about something small. Ah, right. A burning blush climbed up his cheeks, and Dylas kept his eyes averted even as he could feel Frey’s on him. 

“Fine. Promise not to laugh. And promise not to tell _anyone_.” 

He felt the pillows rustle as she nodded gravely.

Dylas sighed. “I’m— Well. I hate puddles. I’ve always been kinda nervous around them, ever since you woke me up from the ruins. I just—” He could hear Frey, his wife, the betrayer, trying to stifle a laugh against her hands, making his blush only deepen as heat prickled indignantly against his skin. “Hey, it’s true! You never know how deep they’re gonna be! That’s why I always avoid stepping in them.”

Frey was still shaking, but this time it seemed more from the effort of trying not to laugh. 

“Dylas,” She wheezed out, “That’s so swee—”

Her words were cut off by another bright flash of lightning, followed by a particularly loud boom of thunder. She jolted in the bed, and Dylas’ eyes jumped to her.

Dylas was still nervous about the relationship, even after all this time, like he’d wake up one day to find it was a dream, or Frey would finally realize she was too good for him. But he knew she loved him, somehow, unconditionally, and so he would always be there. And he knew her.

He knew her. That’s why he could see the slope of Frey’s shoulders, the way they were hunched as she lay on her side, and it’s why he could tell his wife was trying to burrow in on herself, to deal with everything on her own and push all her feelings down like she could ignore the fact that she was afraid in the first place. Like she had to.

“You idiot,” he mumbled, his voice overflowing with concern and affection even to his own ears. 

Frey blinked back up as Dylas shifted onto his side.

His face was still warm from blushing, but even still he didn’t take his eyes off of his wife as he said, “We said we’d rely on each other, right? So… lean on me. I’ve got you.” 

She flashed him the warmest, most grateful smile he’d ever seen (the kind that, though he’d never admit this, made him so flustered and _happy,_ more than he knew he could be, Dylas found himself half-wanting to cry every time) and then nodded, before burrowing herself against his chest. 

He curled around her, burying his nose in her hair and pulling her closer by where his arms were around her back. His long legs tangled around hers and she rested her feet against his calves. 

Dylas flinched. “Damn— your feet are _cold,”_

Frey laughed, the sound so sweet that Dylas found himself smiling too. She lightly shoved her shoulder with his. 

“You’re a big baby.” The words were muffled against his chest, but still the fondness behind them was as clear as day. 

He kept laughing against her hair. 

The terrible weather continued, so Frey was still trembling as she tightened her hold on Dylas to be an iron grip, but he didn’t mind. 

On the one hand, it made his chest hurt to see Frey in any kind of distress— not because this fear made her less brave, but because he never wanted her to be upset if he could help it— but on the other hand, knowing that he was the one she allowed to see her this way, the one that she looked to for comfort made Dylas feel… Well, he wasn’t sure how, since he’d never been good with his words, even since they got married, but he felt nervous, happy, and protective all at once. 

Holding her close, he renewed the vows he had made multiple times to her and himself, the words echoing in his thoughts. _I’ll be here for you, always. As long as you want to hold onto me, I’ll hold you close._

And he did, all throughout the night, until the storm slowly passed and the noises weakened in the distance. Until his wife was back asleep in his arms— still slightly fitful, but still feeling overwhelmingly like home. 


End file.
